


Fortune Favors The Bold

by KDtheGhostwriter



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gianna is mentioned as well, Introspection, Mentions of Helen, quiet time, sad keanu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 12:43:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDtheGhostwriter/pseuds/KDtheGhostwriter
Summary: John Wick has fulfilled his marker and escaped to the Roma Continental in one piece. Finally with a moment to himself, he reflects on his life and the turns that took him to his current position as the world's best - and most wanted - assassin.





	Fortune Favors The Bold

**Author's Note:**

> Just when you thought I only wrote about Men in Capes, I drop a yarn about Men with Guns! Set during Chapter 2. After the catacomb raid.

“I’ll make it quick. I promise.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll try and do the same.”

Cassian stands from his stool and finishes his drink, setting the empty glass on the bar and reaching into his pocket.

“This round’s on me.” He sets a single gold coin on the counter and gives John a hard look. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”

Cassian walks away in silence. He’s calm now, but the man is furious. That much is clear. John can’t blame him; he’s mad himself. If their brawl hadn’t taken them back to The Continental - who knows?

But he was there, so he lifts his drink to Cassian’s retreating form. John is about to sip his own drink when he feels a crinkling at his nape. The unmistakable feeling of an unwelcome presence. Turning in his chair reveals the mute he encountered earlier that evening - Santino’s head body guard: Ares.

[Having a rough night?] Ares signs the question. John isn’t in the mood for talking, so he’s at least thankful for that. [Can I buy you a drink?]

John answers by picking his own glass up and standing. “No. Thanks.”

Ares gets his attention and signs again: [Not him. Me. Be seeing you, John Wick.]

John considers this, briefly, and signs back: [Not if I see you first.]

He accentuates the last sign with a swipe of his arm and leaves the bar entirely. He’s got his drink in his hand but doesn’t sip. He can feel the bruises forming already (in that way, the ‘tactical lining’ did its job) and he only wants a chance to sit and sip at his own pace in the privacy of his room.

The elevator ride was the first uneventful part of his evening: no pounding music, no gunshots, no henchmen. If John thinks about it long enough, he could let himself think he’s free.

But he knows better.

The door opens on his floor and he makes his way into his suite. He eases down into a plush armchair in the main room, not bothering with taking off the blazer just yet. John could feel the metal pressing through the fabric of his suit: the bullets that failed to pierce his flesh. He raised his glass to toast the tailor that wasn’t there and took a sip. It stung like hell, but trading injuries for death is a deal far more generous than John thinks he deserves.

He hadn’t wanted the job. It was the last job he’d ever expected to take. When he gave Santino that marker, it was with the understanding that it would be his last job. And the expectation that Santino would never call it in.

Why would he ever need to? He’s a powerful man. A wealthy one. His sister had a seat at The Table. Anyone who threatens him is as good as dead. He didn’t need the Baba Yaga. But of course, it wasn’t enough. Little brother wanted his own take. He needed Gianna dead, and he needed it done clean. Santino was right when he said John was the only one capable of such a job. He had survived wave after wave of security, even being chased into the ancient family crypt. His success – and subsequent survival – is not an implication that sits well with John Wick.

John sighs and sips more of his drink. Santino wants him dead. Just like everyone seems to want him dead these days. He can admit that much to himself, but it doesn’t soften the blow. He already has a new set of crosshairs aimed at him for taking out a member of The High Council. Him having a marker makes no difference. With Santino trying to cover his tracks, it’s twice the headache for John.

John takes the drink and puts the cool glass to his forehead, closing his eyes. These quiet moments are a blessing and curse equally. It gives him time to rest, yes, but also time to think. Think about his life and the many turns that brought him to where he is now.

He starts at the beginning – or what could be called such – as a Marine of the 3rd Battalion in Hawaii. Green as pea soup, young with explosive anger. Before he was Baba Yaga, he was known amongst the recruits as ka diabolō: The One Who Brings Fire. It earned him respect, his share of stripes and a dishonorable discharge along with it.

Becoming an assassin was almost too sensible. He was still a killer, just not a state-sponsored one. What made him a good hitman is what had hindered him some as a soldier. His silence. John Wick never asked any questions, dumb or otherwise. He didn’t ask about the target’s hobbies or if they had a family. If they were on his list, they were no longer people, only problems to be solved. He’d worked all the way through his third decade on Earth and it netted him a small fortune.

It was about that time he met Helen.

A woman that made all of his anger with the world (and himself) vanish like so many casings into the night. That wasn’t an apt analogy, though, because he never thought of work when he was with her. It wasn’t possible. To consider any act of violence in reach of her person was one line of sacrilege John wasn’t willing to cross. Getting out of the life and starting a new one with her; the timing had been perfect. It had John hoping for something too good for him to have.

His own death would have been one thing, given how most assassins met their end. He would’ve expected it, welcomed it even. Losing his wife just four years into their marriage? ‘Curse’ was the only word to describe it. A punishment for all the blood spilled and lives taken. A biting, vengeful wrath not unlike his own.

There would surely be a price on his head sooner than later and he wonders if he will just return to the rubble of his home in New Jersey and wait. He could easily buy another home - rebuild his own even. But he was so tired, aching all over. Better to sit on his throne of ashes and wait for the inevitable.

Without Helen, he may as well be dead already.

_Ring!_

John’s eyes dart over to the lone rotary phone resting near the glass. It rings again before he picks it up. He doesn’t answer, knowing who’s on the other end.

“Hello, John. I understand if you’re upset and I know it might feel personal. But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t avenge my sister's murder?”

John places the phone back onto its receiver without a word. He finishes his drink and picks up the phone again, dialing out.

“Could you let Management know I’ll be checking out in the morning?”

John hangs up again and a wave of heat washes over him. Ready to give up just moments ago, his fury is renewed. He had done everything Santino asked and even though he had no reason to expect it, John deserved some reward for his compliance. Even if that reward was for the bastard to leave him the hell _alone_.

He was double-crossed, of course, and John should have accepted it as just another chapter of his cursed existence.

No such luck.

He’ll fly back to New York, pick up his dog and gather whatever he can salvage from his ashen home. No more secrets and backroom deals. No more hiding behind the curtain. If Santino wanted That Guy back, that’s damn well who he’d get.

And whoever came – if anyone dared to get in his way – he’d kill them.

John Wick would kill them all.


End file.
